Clay Liberation Day.

Pundits might tell whoever really listens that the fates upstairs, wise women one and all, sit there and weave all souls on our beautiful planet their destiny. We can factor in human failings, chance, wrong decisions, and still follow our path, whatever the hand of fate brings us, including male humans.

Thus begins a tale of Clay, short for Clayton. His mother's pride and joy, son of an Aussie digger who fought for democracy in New Guinea, so long ago. Clayton was a kind, supportive and capable lad, who studied hard to become a maths teacher. Finances were a bit stringent, so he gained scholarships by agreeing to teach wherever he was sent after his graduation.

He landed in the once thriving port of Eggfong. This sunny bay, blue and calm, had once been a central shipping focus for exporting wool from the surrounding farmland. New arrivals had landed here, to seek their own destiny, by raising sheep and shooting rabbits, both invasive species to the great heritage of the southern state.

Clay was developing his noble career, already principal material, when his eye noticed a new graduate cooking teacher. Her baking of morning tea and slightly worldly air had him entranced, she was still fetching and quite curvy then. He met her family back in suburbia, but after the wedding the newly weds chose to settle in Eggfong.

Sherry, his wife, was definitely no man's slave. She did not even make cups of tea of coffee, despite being such an expert in hospitality. Cake followed cake, Clay quickly learnt not to rock Sherry's boat too much, he was so complicit. His favourite response was, "Yes, dear. Yes, dear." "Right away, dear."

Clay often escaped on their combined holidays from teaching by waking up bright and early, cheerful and quiet. He snuck off to the golf course, where he had a handicap of only one .He was the pennant champion, walking round such verdant pastures, a devil in holing from the bunker.

Clay kept his youthful slender physique all those years in Eggfong. Sherry was the female fatsy daughter of a town drunk, she had no role model there. Soon Clay was stocking up on cartons of red wine bottles, never getting to enjoy the traditional Aussie beers of his studious youth. It was all a trade-off, his love muted itself in habit, and a limited social scene of Sherry's dinner parties and posh booze. The dishwasher, saucepans and endless piles of excess plates had Clay's name on it. "Right away, yes dear." His only remark was often made, one day realizing his biggest handicap was his doormat nature.

But to this awakening Clay brought some daily resentment, well hidden. Sherry by now was morbidly obese, and to clutter up Clay's duties in life at home, she introduced three brother kittens. Fatmen one and all. The pantry soon had one shelf designated for a vast array of unhealthy snacks and expensive kitty toys. Each kitty there had its own kittly litter tray. Well, you know what boy felines are like. Clay had developed a festering little black worm of silent, seething rebellion.

Clay soon found himself dedicated to changing three trays of kitty litter per morning, whiffy. His solace was the golf course, male bonding in his super aging years. Sherry continued on, still cooking, inviting friends to dine on posh nosh and desserts, swilling red wine and goumet chocolates. Clay was getting thinner, but Sherry did not even notice.

One evening in particular presented the straw that broke the camel's back, to paraphrase an old saying. Sherry had prepared a handsome repast for 25 guests, focusing her pots and pans on lavish prawns, home baked hams, poultry, massive puddings. But the day before, bulging Sherry had picked up some severe food poisoning. She was reluctant to cancel, her dinner parties were eagerly anticipated and well received. She was a real trooper.

Clay was sitting through these pretensions of his bride, eating his dinner, which was delectable. Then Sherry said firmly, "Clay, wash those saucepans. Now!" So Clay obeyed, despite feeling lower than a mouse in front of their social circle. "Yes, dear. Right away!" His meal went cold, so the dinner party marched on to dessert, lavish and rich. Sherry wrapped generous leftovers and scraps for everyone's pets, and allocated a midnight feast for the Fatmen.

Seafood is very prone to contamination. Clay woke up at dawn, his planned golfing morning was spent competing for the loo with Sherry. The three feline Fatmen were stricken with kitty gastro, Clay's day descended into changing their toilet trays, scrubbing the loo, and obtaining emergency relief at the local pharmacy. Anything was better than this, but there was no telling Sherry anything.

Clay's self-preservation was paramount. After 24 hours, he was feeling slightly better in his gastric area, Sherry was sitting at her sewing machine, sipping more red wine. Clay had quietly secured the Fatmen in cat cages, and popped them in the back seat of his car. This was going to be a labour of Hercules, but this quiet mouse could roar. He made his personal decision to assert his manhood.

Clay gagged Sherry, and somehow, under the cloak of darkness, hauled her to the boot of his car, bound up like one of those chickens she cooked. Panting with the effort, and the thrill of it all, Clay shovelled all that fresh broccolini and those saucepans, spotless, into the car as well. He had planned this bit, a couple of tea towels and the largest shiny colander.

Clay drove in the midnight hours to Eggfong Bay, where the harbour lights were shining in the mist. Clay set the captive Fatmen onto the foam in the colander, with a tea towel for a sail, and wished them God Speed, and Bon Voyage. He vowed never to change kitty litter again. Then he hurled all broccolini, saucepans and used, stinky kitty litter onto the foamy oceans of the planet. He did not care if any of these factors of resentment could even swim.

Finally, he girded his now liberating loins, and hauled a horrified Sherry from the boot. It was a giant effort, but he swung her above his head, muttering, "Can Fatbuckles Sherry even swim?" Sherry tried to yell, "Clay, bring those saucepans back, now!"

But no, Clay's black worm had exploded. "Get 'em yourself!

The harbour lights on the bay blinked. Some fish stocks were toxically damaged by this new ecoterrorist, Clay. But he went over to his golfing buddy's pad to live. Sherry washed up ashore far along the coastline, and survived. She had profound amnesia, and was taken in by a women's refuge, where she became known as "Cooky". She found peace in cooking vast pots of food, all she could remember of her previous life. Clay stopped being his own worst self-critic, as many doormats are. His new phrase is, "Got a beer?" He ate from paper plates, and consumed only good Aussie tucker, regaining his manhood.

The seas of Eggfong Bay smoothed over in time. The wise fates upstairs may or may not have spum this web of destiny for all the central characters here, whether mere humans made informed decisions or not. All was calm, as the pundits might tell, after Clay's liberation day.